


Freeze Thaw

by sainthound



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 16:23:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16201229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sainthound/pseuds/sainthound
Summary: No matter what kind of day it is, Billie Dean always has Nora to come home to.





	Freeze Thaw

Nora flickers in and out of Billie Dean's timeframe like a moth.

Sometimes her efforts to remain tangible are a mere dusty flutter. Billie Dean sees her. Of course she does, she always, always sees her. At these times, she sees her as through a camera lens spattered with raindrops, murky and indistinct, a smudge of colour in the monochrome basement with the opacity turned down low. A sigh, a sob, the rustle of lace or a hint of perfume, close to indistinguishable from her own. But always in the basement. Always the basement, and then Thaddeus will clatter behind the crushed furniture and Billie Dean will turn on her heel with her heart pounding like a trapped sparrow and Nora will be gone, fled into the dark recesses of the house without a whisper.

Other times, she is searingly real.

Her very presence is white-hot and hissing, authority without even trying, her mind sharp as a razor blade and her tongue sharper still. When she arrives with clicking heels and a glare that could turn blood to ice and melt steel, Billie Dean smiles, because Real days are becoming all too rare now. 

Nora cries more than she looks her in the eyes.

Today does not feel tangible, and Billie Dean herself feels unreal as she walks briskly as she can up the front path without breaking into a run. A light grey drizzle had descended early that morning and had only worsened since then, so that by evening the rain was hammering onto the roof of the farmhouse she'd been called to investigate. The location was plain to say the least; around three-quarters of a century old, out in the sticks, reportedly haunted by the spirits of a couple who had passed there sometime in the forties. Murder suicide. Billie Dean had had enough of that to last a lifetime.

After trying and failing to speak with the young man, and unable to get anything more than snappish monosyllabic answers from his sullen wife, the television crew had called it a day and begun to pack away their gear as the rain outside beat down with a vengeance.

"We're not blaming you, Billie," Leena told her gently, crouched beside her disassembled camera and its case. 

Billie Dean tapped her foot tersely, took a long drag of her cigarette, and stayed silent.

"We're just finding it hard to get permission to film at better locations. All the good ones - y'know, the really haunted ones - are closing themselves off." Leena zipped up her camera case, slung it over her shoulder and stood up. She chewed her lower lip and eyed Billie Dean cautiously. "D'you think..." she lowered her voice tactfully, "D'you think it's something to do with the disturbance we caused at the Cortez last year?"

Billie Dean's foot stopped tapping, and she pressed her lips together in a thin line. She had made a point to eradicate the Cortez from mind and memory, including the public memory, but the secrecy of the whole thing and her obvious distaste for sharing had sparked rumours. People were beginning to get suspicious.

But no matter how she tried to pass the whole thing off as a scare tactic, a little fright intended to keep her mouth shut without any real threat behind it, she couldn't shake the dead serious look in that woman (murderess? Blood drinker? Vampire?)'s dark eyes, the whirring of a drill, cruel laughter and hungry fingers gripping her shoulders. She couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, if the thought crossed her mind, she'd be dead before the word 'Cortez' fell from her lips.

Or perhaps not. They liked to make it last, after all.

After a moment, she parted her lips and shook her head. "No. I hope not, anyway. I- We made it very clear that nothing... unsavoury happened. At least on our end. We've done all we can to clear that mess up." She smiled a little and placed her cigarette back between her lips.

Leena watched her earnestly as if hoping she would suddenly change her mind and disclose everything at once, but when Billie Dean stayed resolutely silent, she sighed and readjusted her camera strap. "Right. God, Billie, I do wish you'd stop keeping it all so hush-hush."

Billie Dean merely shrugged offhandedly, flashed her a winning smile, and took her phone out of her skirt pocket to check the time. 7:32 PM. It would be late when she got home. "I'd best be going, Leena. Rain's getting awfully heavy."

"Alright. Drive safe, honey."

The drive home had been long and dark and filled with the static-y remnants of the jazz station.

It continued to rain, even as she took her turn off the freeway, even as she parked up outside the house, even as she opened the car door and clicked up the path, ducking her head in a futile attempt to avoid getting pelted.

"Goddammit." Billie Dean's wet fingers fumble her keys out of her skirt pocket and send them clattering onto the front step. The rain is the type that soaks one to the bone regardless of how much time they spend standing in it, and her damp hair brushes and sticks to her cheeks unpleasantly as she stoops to retrieve the dropped keys. Carefully this time, and clutching her purse under her other arm, she unlocks the door and steps into the relative warmth of Murder House.

The fire is lit in the grate. Billie Dean curses under her breath as she wobbles on one leg, then the other, to remove her heels. She wiggles her stockinged toes against the floor and sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. The house is blissfully silent. No shouting, no screams, no crashes or clatters or crying or-

"Billie Dean!"

She can't help her lips twitching into a tired smile. Nora's heels are clicking down the hallway and yes, this is good. She likes it when Nora screeches and snaps and throws a tantrum. It means today is a Real day.

"Billie Dean Howard, do you hear me?" She's standing by the staircase with her hands on her hips, her red lacquered lips pressed together in a thin line. Her eyes are blazing and Billie Dean is caught offguard, smiling like an idiot at her gorgeous, flaming Nora before she gathers the wits and willpower to reply.

"I hear you, darling." She notes how Nora's eyes narrow and holds a hand out to her in appeasement. "Come here."

"Absolutely not, you're soaked," Nora looks her up and down, wrinkling her nose. "I hope you're not dripping all over the floor. Fetch yourself a towel this instant."

"Charming."

"Do you expect me to get it for you? I'm not a damned servant."

"Really? I'd never have guessed." Billie Dean rolls her eyes and crosses the distance between them, wrapping Nora in a hug before she can protest. She tucks her chin against her shoulder, breathing in her scent of heady floral perfume, warm skin, the coppery tang of long-dried blood. A silky blonde curl falls against her cheek. The end of it feels stiff. It may be congealed with the contents of Nora's head, but Billie Dean knows better than to mention the exit wound. She touches her lips to Nora's neck, and breathes.

"I know it's late. I'm sorry."

Nora's hands falter at her sides, before coming to rest on her hips. Billie Dean feels her throat move as she swallows, coughs politely.

"Yes. Well. You should have let me know." She hesitates. "Leave a note, or- or a telephone call."

Billie Dean bites back a laugh. "Last time I called you, you hung up on me five times. You don't know how to use the phone."

"I do now," Nora replies haughtily. "After you taught me. Really, I don't understand what was wrong with the telephones I used to use. They worked perfectly well."

Billie Dean laughs breathily, cupping Nora's cheek with her hand. The ghost huffs, steps away and folds her arms across her chest. She's wearing the red dress, the one that ends just above her knees, showing off her pale calves and glimmering with glass beads and sequins at her chest. She is achingly beautiful, as always, as every day, regardless of how Real she appears to be.

Regardless of how Real she appears to be, her pale cheek grows the faintest hint of pink when Billie Dean kisses it and thaws her, just a little.


End file.
